


A Near Death Experience

by AeeDee



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Orgasm Denial, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill from the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/tronkinkmeme/">Tron kink meme</a>, asking for... well, Alan being angry at Sam. ..and screwing him accordingly so (with a healthy dose of angst, of course).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Near Death Experience

He’d never forget that night.

Sam’s body against the pavement, sprawled out as if carelessly discarded. The image of Sam’s dazed face, undefined and vague as he stared blankly ahead. His breathing shallow, blood dripping from his lips as he attempted to speak. When he’d try it he’d choke, because he wasn’t able to clear the blood from his throat.

And when they came for him, his arm had started to twitch, like he’d severed a nerve. He tried to follow them with his eyes, to respond to them, but he was drifting in and out of consciousness by the time they reached his side with the stretcher. And when he made an impulsive movie to sit up, his body was swaying, drifting slowly back and forth like a leaf in the breeze, steadily falling back. They caught him, with unsteady hands; hands that seemed afraid to break him.

Police lights flashing in the distance, the spinning red and blue painting the street. The crew that shuffled around, and the cops that idly stood by to assess the damage, detached and neutral as if there wasn’t a human being bleeding in the street. The glass debris, a stray piece or few of metal here and there. The dark tire skid marks, in heavy streaks across the road until they abruptly stopped at the curb. And the Ducati laying on its side, one wheel partially unhinged, a chain snapped; a hole punched out of a headlight and a stray shoe carelessly strewn beneath it.

Those flashing lights on the ambulance; glittering red, those lights would haunt his memory.

Because for the first time in his life, he thought, “That’s it. I’ve lost him.”

And for a moment he couldn’t breathe. But then he found it within himself to calm down, and could. Then he’d catch sight of more blood on the asphalt and it would hit him again.

“I really might lose him tonight.”

-

Sam collapsed against the bed, with a “Hnnh,” whine born from tiredness. He groaned, “What a day.”

“Rough time at the office,” Alan asked in a quiet murmur, as he was pulling his shirt off.

“Yeah,” Sam comments, “That Dillinger’s still giving me shit.”

“Language,” Alan chided him gently, as he slid off his glasses, setting them down on the nearby dresser.

“Ah, well,” Sam grinned a little, “No better way to describe it.”

“Hm,” Alan acknowledged; he wasn’t in much of a talking mood, but he didn’t want to be rude. So he refrained from commenting further, and instead reached over and switched off the lamp.

Immediately, the room fell into a soft blue. The moon poured in with a faint glow, its light shining in through sheer, white curtains over the window. Sam was pulling the sheets over himself, while Alan crawled in beside him.

For a moment, as he moved in he caught sight of Sam’s arm, as he was maneuvering those sheets; and the long, jagged scar running across it, long and thin as if severing it in half.

Alan remembered that wound. That one had almost cut him to the bone. The doctors didn’t know which piece of the Ducati caused it, or if it was bike itself and not some part of the car that rammed into him. The bumper got dinged up something bad, a clear human impact pushing it off and snapping it back.

He hadn’t seen the collision itself. Just the aftermath. He’d heard the sound, and arrived to a scene of Sam crawling on the ground, blood running down that arm as he floundered around somewhat helplessly, imbalanced and incapable of adjusting himself to stand up straight. He wasn’t able to rise onto his legs at all; the moment he put pressure on them, he tipped over and collapsed. He just collapsed, like a doll.

Alan shakes his head, to clear his mind of the vision. But no matter how many times he does that, it never works. Even when he blinks hard and opens his eyes again, the image lingers, as if burned into his brain. He stares into darkness for a moment, waiting for it to fade by itself.

And when it does, inevitably as always, he lays down beside his lover, trying to readjust and calm himself. He’s feeling agitated, and he doesn’t want to; and he didn’t want to see that scar but he did, and he needs to move on past that now. It’s too late at night, and he’s much too tired to dwell on it.

Besides, nothing could be done. There was nothing he could do. He felt hopeless at expressing his frustration in a way Sam could possibly understand. Sam was there, but he wasn’t the witness. He wasn’t taking in the same view Alan was. Sam wasn’t even thinking about losing his life, or the potential damage from what happened. He wasn’t thinking that he may slip into a coma. He didn’t even consider that he might never wake up. He wasn’t the outsider, the viewer, thinking, desperately praying and thinking that his lover was going to die.

Alan tried not to feel bitter. But that was damn hard.

Especially because the entire incident was Sam’s fault. He knew what he was doing, when his most reasonable escape plan involved racing through a busy street backwards, when it was full of traffic. He knew he was playing God when he purposefully drove the wrong way, just to catch a shortcut to that nearby alley. He knew he was breaking the law and endangering himself needlessly, and he didn’t even care.

He didn’t even _care_ at all.

The recovery time was difficult to deal with. But even that was a worse experience for Alan than Sam. Sam was in a great deal of pain, but he spent many of those long days drugged, asleep, or otherwise calm. Alan was the man to change the bandages, clean the wounds, administer his drugs, drive him to the hospital for his routine visits, and to help fill in for the great deal of work he was missing at Encom. Projects still had to be completed, deadlines had to be meet, and Alan would spend his free hours of the night sitting not far from Sam’s bed, studying reports and drafting up emails and notices to send out in the morning. He’d sleep a few hours each night, occasionally enjoying a full night’s rest once Sam began to heal properly.

When Sam woke up in the middle of the night crying out from pain at having applied pressure when he shouldn’t have, it was Alan that would rush to his side to make sure he hadn’t reopened anything. And when Sam felt especially sick from his medication, Alan was the man to bring him a trash bucket, clean it out and stand vigil for the next hour in case the need should strike again.

Once Sam was able to walk steadily, he largely became self-sufficient. He had a cast on one leg and bandages on the other, but he’d limp and stagger his way to whatever room he needed to venture into. But sometimes he’d travel too far and be unable to make his way back without exhausting himself, and Alan was the man that would help lift him up and guide him to his bed.

A friend told him he did too much for the kid. But he couldn’t help it. He hated to see him in that state, and he couldn’t bring himself to not make his recovery as easy and smooth as possible.

But it never got easier. Even when Sam was starting to get better, he still had injuries that looked gruesome, deep bruises that hadn’t fully gone away, messy stitches and a handful of new scars that distracted him every time he saw them.

More than anything, Alan hated those scars, because it reminded him of just how awful Sam’s initial state had been. The small scar below his neck, in the center of his chest was the kind of scar that reminded him that Sam could’ve lost his ability to breathe. The scar on his arm was the reminder that he could’ve permanently paralyzed the limb from his elbow and down. The massive scar on his leg was the reminder that he came perilously close to never walking normally again. And the scar on his back—well, the series thereof—was the reminder that he could have been gored by the shards of glass and scattered pieces of metal that went snapping back from the car’s front end when he collided with it.

There was no scar for Sam’s concussion. But that was dangerous, all the same. He wasn’t wearing a helmet like the idiot he was, and an onlooker had reported that his head almost hit the pavement face down. He could’ve knocked himself out. He could’ve snapped his neck.

At this point, Alan’s too rattled to sleep. So he lays onto his back, as peacefully as he can to not disturb Sam as he drifts into a land of dreams. But not Alan. Alan just stares at the ceiling, visions of blood and stitches and Sam’s injured body drifting through his mind.

And the image of his blood on the pavement, glistening under the yellow streetlights.

He sighs; a little too loudly. Sam stirs, but he doesn’t say anything yet. He just turns to face him directly, looking up with tired, but curious eyes. Alan doesn’t respond, but it only takes Sam one long look to realize he’s in a foul mood.

“You alright,” he asks.

“I’m okay,” Alan lies, because that particular lie meant he could avoid bringing up the touchy subject and ruining their night.

But Sam’s not an idiot. “You sure, Alan?”

Alan doesn’t say anything; he finds it immensely difficult to lie twice in one conversation, nevermind twice in a row. He was a man of integrity, after all. He ordinarily prided himself on being a man of honesty.

Sam notices his lack of response. But luckily, he’s too tired to pry. In a gesture of goodwill, he lays back down again, resting his head against Alan’s chest. But when Sam slides an arm around him, that’s when he sees the traces of burn marks from the asphalt, where the skin was still textured and rough.

He can’t stand it.

“Sam,” as he speaks he can feel something inside of him breaking, some semblance of his willpower, “Does that still hurt?”

“Does what, Alan,” he murmurs.

“Those burns marks. The ones on your arm.”

“Hm,” he half-sighs, as if he dislikes the subject, but he responds regardless, “Only when I’m out in the sun too long. Sun dries ‘em out.”

Alan lifts a hand and brushes it over the sensitive skin there, noting the feel, that texture like sandpaper in certain spots. As he studies it, he applies more pressure, scraping gently at some of the recently healed patches of broken skin.

“Hurts when you do _that_ ,” Sam groans.

“Sorry,” but he’s not, really. In a way, it makes him feel good to know Sam’s capable of feeling some pain. Just a little. Just enough to equal even a shred of the trauma he’s endured on his behalf. That impulse makes Alan feel a pang of guilt, but he can’t help that. He can’t help admitting what he honestly feels, not to himself.

But he wasn’t intending to say a word to Sam. Not until…

“My leg hurts like a bitch sometimes, though.”

“The one that was broken-”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his lips against Alan’s neck as he moves to snuggle against him, “I don’t think it settled right.”

“You should have the doctor look at it again.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges, falling silent for a moment, “Sometime.”

There it was. _That_ attitude. The attitude that said it wasn’t important, not crucial enough to get it done immediately. Why wait? Because Sam waited on everything. He waited until the very last minute of every deadline, because nothing pressured him, nothing unsettled him, nothing drove him into a frenzy. Nothing except that deadline that came once a year, his annual prank; the one day he could never miss. He’d sooner forget someone’s birthday, than the day of that damn prank.

Even though he was now working at Encom, he’d still go out of his way to uphold his tradition. For pride, for honor, as a sick joke, god knows what-

Alan didn’t even mind the jokes themselves. They were often more funny than inconveniencing. But he didn’t have the mental fortitude to endure another five months of repairing Sam back into a fully operational human being, either.

He didn’t have the strength to make it through watching Sam near the edge of death. Not a second time.

If those paramedics had only arrived a few minutes later… if they hadn’t been so close, then-

He’s so distracted by the sickening, sudden recollection of Sam choking on his own blood that he barely notices Sam’s movement until he’s already in motion, as he rises and repositions himself, crawling over Alan’s body like it’s a piece of idle furniture. Alan wants to question him, but he decides to wait instead, to see what his intentions are.

And when Sam slides beneath the sheets, and comes to sprawl himself over Alan’s legs, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s thinking. But why…

Alan’s given no time to think. The instant he starts to wonder, he’s jarred out of that initial thought by the sudden sensation of warmth over the base of his penis, a soft, gentle warmth that feels like- Oh, it is- Sam’s tongue, pressing firmly against it. The feel is more erotic than usual, as he soaks through Alan’s briefs with his saliva, caressing him intently as if the fabric were not even there. It’s tempting, but not fulfilling- A tease, what a tease-

But Sam’s not feeling too cruel. Alan sees a hand slide around beneath the sheets, and he feels the rush of air as his briefs are pulled down. Held in place by what must be Sam’s fingers, Alan can’t find the capacity to even think about it when he feels warmth envelope the length of his dick, hot warmth and a coarse tongue sliding against and around, caressing it slowly.

Involuntarily, Alan cringes; just a tad, but it’s not a negative response. He just can’t help but to react when he feels the initial spark of pleasure. His back arches and his toes curl as Sam’s tongue continues that assault on his penis, as those fingers pinning his briefs back in place begin to press down, pressing deeply against his balls, slowly mashing and digging against them.

Sam pulls back, as a rush of air teases against the wet spit coating his dick. And Sam’s kissing the tip intently, kissing it like he loves it, tenderly sucking and gently gnawing along the edge of his foreskin as his penis continues to swell inside it. And when Sam slides his entire length back into his mouth again, his breathing is heavy and his tongue is more active than before as he continues to make love to his dick. And Alan can see the movement of his body beneath the sheets, as Sam predictably starts to slowly grind against one of the man’s legs, seeking stimulation to his own.

“Come on,” Alan’s voice a faint breath, as he’s feeling fairly overwhelmed but not wanting to enjoy a solitary experience, “Let’s make this mutual.”

Sam makes an incomprehensible sound, but he complies, releasing Alan’s dick with a small kiss to the head and a subsequent change of position, as he sits up and makes his way back. Alan hurries to slide off his briefs, as Sam makes certain to remove his boxers, discarding them off to the floor.

Sam comes to rest on top of Alan, straddling his waist, his erect cock in plain and marvelous sight, his balls resting against the edge of the man’s own moist, throbbing dick. And Alan approves of this change of plans-

Until he sees the scar on Sam’s chest, that mark just below his neck. The scar where they had to remove the glass from his body, before it protruded too deeply inside his body.

“How could you,” he finally manages.

Sam’s startled, but he doesn’t lose his cool. Not yet. “How could I what,” he even grins a little, as if playing along to a game. And as he straightens his back the scar is even more apparent, only serving to further incite Alan’s frustration.

“How could you do this to yourself,” as he raises a hand to Sam’s chest, right there, right there, running his fingers along the length of that scar, feeling the raised edge to one end, where the glass had penetrated his skin.

“Alan?” Sam’s face turns conflicted, for the first time that evening. He’s not concerned, but he’s-

“How could you,” Alan growls, “Do something so stupid.”

Sam starts to frown, as his lips curl into an irritated smirk.

“This, and the broken leg, and the scarred arms, and the fucking concussion!” Now that he’s started this, he can’t hold back. His anger is a rush that was barely restrained behind heavy doors, locked with just a single bolt. And Sam’s arrogance, his _calm_ , his complete lack of guilt or regret or- “And everything else I won’t point out, the bruises and the blatant danger to your life! You looked like the walking _dead_ when they found you, you stupid fuck.”

And to that, Sam says nothing. His face is neutral again, but he appears more startled than anything else. Alan had never said something like that to him before. Not ever. Who was this man, in fact. Who was this man, that had so many rude things to say…

Alan’s fingers still linger over that scar, but his arm is shaking. “You almost killed yourself. You could have died-”

Sam interrupts him, forcibly grabbing hold of his hand, and guiding it away, slowing guiding until Alan’s fingers come to rest flat against the bed. He asks faintly, “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” he almost hisses at him. “I can’t stand it. I hate it,” he speaks with such a ferocity that his whole body moves, rattling with each word, “Because you’re so fucking stupid. So goddamn reckless-”

“Come on, Alan,” Sam whines, “You’re bringing me down-”

“Maybe you should be.”

Sam stares at him, his eyes narrowing in an expression of retaliation. Except he doesn’t know how to respond. He can’t just be a smartass to deflect that charge.

“Maybe you should feel guilty for _once_.”

“Guilty,” Sam reaffirms.

“Yeah, that,” Alan snaps at him.

Sam shrugs, and idly gazes off to the side. He doesn’t comment, just seems to sigh to himself, before getting up and removing himself from Alan’s lap. He pulls the sheets back up to where they were, and buries himself beneath them, laying down with his back to the man, his head against the pillow as if he intends to sleep.

“Sam, what now,” Alan’s too annoyed to tolerate the cold shoulder.

“What’s with _you_ , Alan,” the faint murmur.

“Did I hurt your feelings,” but he’s not feeling sympathetic at all. He’s exceptionally cruel, as he can still feel the hot pulse of anger in his blood. “Did I, Sam.”

“What do you want, Alan,” his voice more annoyed this time.

Alan pauses for a moment. He wants-

“Do you want to have sex,” Sam casually responds.

“What-”

“Let’s have sex,” he says, turning over to face him. He pulls the sheets back, exposing his bare chest, and parts his legs to reveal what lingers of his erection. “Let’s work this out.”

-

It turns out, Sam knew Alan better than he knew himself. Ridiculous as it was, bothersome as it was. It was, in fact, almost too far-fetched to be believed. But Sam was not joking around. His proposal wasn’t a distraction or game, so much as it proved to be a solution.

Sam’s bent onto all fours like an animal, leaning forward, resting his weight on his arms. He buries his face into his pillow, chewing on the fabric, teeth gnawing against the texture of the cotton inside as he groans, a series of slow, long moans from behind a clenched jaw.

And Alan fucks him, really _fucks_ him. He pounds into Sam so hard his whole body shakes, thrust with such a ferocity that Sam’s injured leg aches, his arm brushes against the bed and the skin burns, and his cock throbs with such an ache he’s scared to touch it.

“Goddammit,” Alan can’t seem to stop cursing. Once he opened the well he’d been unable to contain it, “Goddammit Sam.”

“’m srry,” he groans against the pillow, clenching his eyes shut as he feels that man’s cock penetrating even deeper inside him than before. He gasps as it hits his prostate, and when he gasps Alan seizes the opportunity, hitting him there again, and again. “ _Fuck_ , Alan,” he pants.

“You’re mine,” Alan hisses, sweat gathering at the base of his neck, his eyes glazed over, “You’re _fucking_ mine-”

“Ah- _Alan_ ,” he’s feeling the insatiable throbbing of his dick and wanting, needing to pay attention to it- He needs-

But when he reaches a hand down to stroke it, Alan reprimands him, “Don’t you fucking dare-”

“ _Ah_ ,” another hard thrust, he’s pushed forward as pleasure sparks through his body.

“You don’t touch,” he pounds into him again, his hands firmly pressed around Sam’s waist, gripping him so hard the skin beneath his fingers starts to pale, “Not until I say.”

“ _Alan_ ,” he’s whining, distracted by another spark that conflicts with the hot, raw pain that starts to emanate from his cock.

“Not until I say,” he growls, “I’m keeping you in line!”

The man reaches a hand around Sam’s body, leaving the other in place as he snakes around to the boy’s cock. Sam’s about to breathe a sigh of relief, but instead of the touch he desires, he just feels Alan’s fingers grace the very tip, a brief dance that teases, a move that only aggravates the ache.

And when Alan hits the hot spot deep inside him again, he’s feeling so much pleasure he wants to come. He wants to come so hard he could almost cry. But instead he just continues to grind his teeth against the pillow, and frown and whine to himself, as his body starts to shake. All nerves, some stress; a necessary distraction.

“ _Hn_ ,” Alan groans as he thrusts again, as he lightly brushes a finger across the tip of Sam’s throbbing cock again. Just a quick brush, nothing more; and when Sam starts to seethe and groan from the building pressure, Alan murmurs a quick, “Serves you right,” and tilts his head back as he comes.

Sam can hear him moan as he does, and he can feel the man’s dick releasing inside him, as that fluid warmth spreads, and aches. It aches, because Sam _loves_ it when Alan comes, because he loves to jack himself off at the same time. And how was he supposed to do that, when he can’t even touch-

Without warning, Alan slides his dick out of him, leaving Sam stunned at the sudden departure. No, that can’t be it-

And Alan releases his hold on Sam’s body at last, lifting that hand on his waist to reveal a fresh bruise, in the vague outline of his fingers. He sees that, and something snaps inside him; something that makes him lose even more control than he already had.

Provoked, he grabs hold of Sam, more aggressively this time, catching him around his chest and pushing him down, turning and dragging him by the hips to lay flat on his back against the bed. Sam stares up at him, eyes wild, his breathing erratic and rushed. Without warning or question, Alan grabs hold of his legs, and lifts them up and spreads them apart.

“Alan-” Sam starts, but he’s interrupted-

Alan grabs hold of his body again, and pushes his dick back inside that entrance, eliciting a sharp, “ _Arghh_ ,” from Sam as he reacts to the spike of pain and unexpected force. But he immediately relaxes as Alan starts to thrust, as Sam realizes he’s not intending to stop any time soon.

Sam manages, “How are you even still hard,” but half his words get lost in his frantic and broken gasps as his body is being shaken up, pounded into and pushed up and down against the bed like he was an object, just some receptacle for Alan’s inevitable second batch of cum.

He moans, his erect cock now in plain sight, as it swells and pulsates and throbs. He takes a glance at it, wanting so badly to touch-

But when he curls his fingers towards it, Alan hisses, “I said no!”

“But _Ah_ ,” another thrust, “Alan-”

He raises a hand up to reach again, but Alan forcibly grabs it, crushing his fingers tightly in his own to keep Sam from maneuvering them freely. Sam sends him an unintentional glare, strangely horrified and fascinated by the man’s insistence. And when Sam tries to lift the other arm to navigate with that hand, Alan leans forward, his hands pinning Sam’s own down against the bed as he continues to thrust into him, his legs pushing back and forth to keep up the rhythm.

Sam stares into his eyes, a wild, almost desperate semblance of lust as Alan keeps him pinned still. The man is a like a beast, poised above him like this. Ordinarily, he’d seize the opportunity and play into that image, with some friendly teasing-

But he’s too distracted by the raging pressure inside his own dick. And when he can feel Alan tensing up as if he’s about to finish releasing inside him, he grows impatient and restless. 

Sam starts to growl, whining and panting as his own climax starts to build. But without being able to touch, he-

Without warning, he starts to feel it: Alan’s final drops of cum, as the man closes his eyes, and his breathing starts to level into series of deep sighs.

So _this_ is it; his genuine orgasm, subtle as always and so powerful it shuts him down for a moment. But still he holds Sam in place, still he pins his hands in place, still he thrusts into him as he even starts to tremble, as he starts to pant and breathe more heavily, as his eyes slowly open but are still dazed and gazing forward blankly, as-

One more thrust; that’s all it takes. One more hit against his g spot, and Sam’s trembling and gasping, that pressure against his cock slowly being erased, slowly being consumed by an enveloping heat and a spread of sensation. He feels himself about to come, and closes his eyes, focusing on Alan’s deep breathing, the man’s lingering pants, the man’s arms as they tremble, and the mental image, burned into his mind of Alan’s lust-filled, flushed face-

Sam lets out a deep moan, as he feels every muscle in his body tense; he grinds his teeth, he shakes, he trembles; and when that hot ache reaches its peak, he feels a hand wrapping around his cock, gripping it firmly. Fingers like the touch of God, he feels that pressure and knows it’s Alan, and-

His body starts to tremble as he relaxes, cum being pumped out by Alan’s hand, as he strokes him through his orgasm, marveling at the way Sam’s body is arching beneath him. And Sam comes so hard he moans, a loud, “ _God_ ,” that sounds broken and desperate and beautiful. And once he stops ejaculating he’s still panting, managing a murmured, “Goddamn,” as he slows his breath and stares up at Alan with emotional, glossy eyes.

He appears on the brink of tears, but when Alan wipes at them with a clumsy hand, Sam only laughs, chuckling a little to himself.

Alan looks at him, puzzled as he slowly, gently this time, slides himself out.

Sam replies, “ _Damn_ , Alan.”

“Sam?” the man asks, momentarily confused.

“Do you feel better,” Sam smirks up at him, his playful nature starting to return in his face.

“If you-” Alan’s not sure how to clarify it. He feels relieved, but he’s realizing how forceful he was, and he’s realizing that he lost control of his usual respect for his partner, and-

“Cause that was _amazing_ ,” Sam grins.

“You mean that,” Alan asks, somewhat incredulous.

“Babe,” Sam reaches a hand up, to stroke along Alan’s face, motioning for him to move closer. And when the man leans in, Sam delivers a prompt, eager kiss to his mouth. And when he pulls back he continues, “I don’t lie about sex.”

“Sam..”

“I’m never wrong, am I?” he says with some confidence.

Alan just looks at him for a moment, frowning slightly.

“You feel better?” Sam smiles gently.

Alan says hesitantly, “…yes-”

Sam kisses him again, sitting up to make sure he reaches the side of his face, “Good.”

“Did you enjoy that, honestly,” Alan gives him a sideways look.

Sam laughs a little, and in a sultry murmur, “You know I can’t fake it, Alan.”

Alan doesn’t respond to that, but he does do something he’s been wanting to for a while. He leans in closer, and kisses his lover. He kisses him intently, gently, lovingly; a soft touch he wasn’t able to before. He murmurs, as their lips are pressed together, “I can’t lose you Sam.”

And he can feel a tug at Sam’s mouth, as he smiles and kisses him back, “I know, Alan.” He sits back slightly, but he raises his hands to caress the man’s face, gently running his fingers down, from his eyes to his trace along his jawline. He sighs a little and tells him, “And I’m sorry.”

“You really mean that, Sam?” Alan’s hesitant, but…

“Yeah,” he gives a single nod, “I just,” as he suppressed a grin, “You know…”

Alan looks at him, curious about his next words.

“I don’t mind being careful, I just,” Sam can’t help allowing his grin to reveal itself, “I wouldn’t mind being _punished_ more often.”

“What a naughty boy you are,” Alan comments slyly.

Sam leans forward, loosely winding his arms around the man’s shoulders, “ _Tell_ me about it, babe.”


End file.
